hens lay eggs​

This week's writing prompt is "things I'm allergic to." Hoo, boy, that could go so many ways!

I'll start with the most prosaic: actual allergies.

Way back when in the middle of what appeared to be a nasty case of seasonal allergies, a doctor tested me for allergies. More than one person predicted I'd have to rid the house of my furry critters. I cannot tell you the relief and validation I felt when I learned that, no, I am not allergic to cats. I am particularly allergic to grass pollen, dust mites, and cockroaches.

I learned back in high school that I am lactose intolerant, which is basically an allergy to cow's milk. I tried goat's milk and ... ewww. That was nasty. I don't often drink milk or eat ice cream and limit consumption of cheese, because my body doesn't like them no matter how good they taste.

I've seen allergies affect horses, most notably HYPP, also called "Impressive Syndrome." Back in the 1990s, scientists finally confirmed what Quarter Horse, Appaloosa, and Paint horse breeders knew on an experiential level: many horses descending from the famous and wildly influential stallion Impressive had something wrong with them. Scientists discovered that something to be a genetic mutation originating with Impressive. Without going into lots of scientific detail I don't understand, HYPP is basically an allergy to alfalfa hay. Some horses are more allergic than others, with severely allergic horses suffering convulsions and even death from exposure to alfalfa.

Going on to the less prosaic, I'm allergic to idiots. Like those who don't suffer fools gladly, I have little patience with people who do and say stupid things with dismaying regularity. We all succumb to occasional outbursts of foolishness and silliness, but some people ... it's best not to get into detail, lest my already high blood pressure spike even further. Unfortunately, I probably fall within that category of idiot.

I'm also allergic to TSTL (too stupid to live) and doormat heroines and womanizing, abusive heroes. I don't understand the appeal of a woman who consistently makes poor decisions--especially those which put herself and others in danger--and holds on to her usually erroneous convictions with a pigheadedness to the point of terminal obstinacy. Such characters are those who do not learn or evolve.

Doormat heroines exhibit the opposite quality: they let everyone else run roughshod over over them. They exhaust themselves pleasing everyone else and trying to fulfill others' demands, not matter how unreasonable. They never stand up for themselves. When I encounter BDSM romance (which, by the way, I don't like), that type of personality tends to feature in heroines of those stories.

Then we come to the jerks, the cads, the so-called heroes whose words and actions lead one to think they could have written the Malleus Maleficarum. I understand the appeal of a bad boy: every woman wants to be that special woman who reforms the rake and turns him into a devoted, supportive husband. What I don't understand is the appeal of a man who views and treats women like toilet paper: good for one (probably disgusting) use only and to be used just the once. Add that attitude to a twisted pleasure derived from striking and confining women (cuffs, ropes, etc.) and my stomach turns. Ain't nothing sexy about that.

My allergies extend to poor writing. Sure, I freely admit that what I produce doesn't fall under the category of deathless prose. Much of it's pretty mundane and humdrum. But I know the proper use of apostrophes. I understand that good writing doesn't drone on and on in passive voice.

So, you have this week's regularly scheduled rant according to someone else's prompt. Next week, I'll discuss how my family survives my writing.

interesting about Impressive. My lone pony would eat anything except the rose bush. He left that for the sheep that was his companion. And after reading I need to go back to redo my post. Forgot to include "idiots." The older I get the less I tolerate idiots and stupidity

Holly Bargo

11/9/2018 12:45:51 pm

The AQHA tried to squelch it, but once scientists had incontrovertible proof of the mutation, the word got out and spread through the stock horse breed organizations (and owners) like wildfire. I knew two Impressive grandsons: both had the gene.

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Hard boiled, scrambled, over easy, and sunny side up: eggs are the musings of Holly Bargo, the pseudonym for the author.

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